Paullina Simons - Inexpressible Island

But because the British are the British, there’s an arrow on Ludgate Hill in the middle of the devastation, and a sign underneath it that reads: Berlin—600 miles .

At the church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, the statue of John Milton has been blown off its plinth, the bell tower destroyed, and the roof of the nave blown in. The walls have survived somehow, but the rest of the church lies broken on the ground.

The area around St. Giles, like St. Paul’s, has been bombed out of existence. There’s almost no Roman wall left where Julian hid his money. It’s dust like all the rest. Only a short, damaged chunk of the wall remains.

The stone with the little cross Julian etched into it stands exposed almost at the break. The graystone is loose, having been dislodged from its neighbors. Julian barely needs a chisel. As he’s pulling out the stone, there’s a loud rumble nearby and an explosion. It startles him, and he drops the boulder, almost on his foot. The stone falls and hits another. Both of them crack into smaller pieces.

For a long time, Julian sits on his haunches and stares at the weathered and dried-out leather bag with the dulled gold silk ribbons, stares at the shiny coins inside, forty-one of them, still gleaming. There is no stashing it away anymore for later. There is no later. He is never coming back. It’s impossible to believe, impossible to accept. There’s another explosion, another stray bomb detonated. It breaks his reverie. Black smoke, flames. The fire engine sirens slice through the silence. Julian grabs the purse with the coins in it, doesn’t bother closing up the hole in the wall, glances at it once last time, and walks away, leaving it for good.

THAT NIGHT JULIAN RETURNS TO BANK A CONQUERING HERO. He has been to several gold dealers on Cheapside, shopped around, got the best price, and sold two of the coins for three hundred pounds each, half of what they’re actually worth but decent enough in the middle of a war. He has been to Smithfield, has strolled past all the lorries. He returns carrying a breakwater stormcollar raincoat as a gift to Wild for taking his cloak, and sackfuls of gifts for the rest; Julian, a blackened bearded wartime Santa Claus.

“The whisky is in!” shouts Wild in his new raincoat, jubilantly running up and down the empty platform. “The whisky is in!”

“Are the boots in?” Mia asks shyly.

He smiles at her. The boots are also in, black leather, brand new. She beams. Julian wants to kiss her. But Finch is watching.

He’s brought them bacon and dry sausage and ham that’s not in a tin. He’s brought more kerosene, boxes of matches, a knife for Wild, a straight razor to shave with, he’s brought soap, new gloves, a yellow wool cardigan for Mia (Wild: “How did he know what size to get you, Folgate? Did he measure you out with his hands?” Julian: “Lucky guess.” Mia: “Shut up, Wild!”), toothpaste, and bottles of ODO-RO-NO liquid deodorant. He’s brought three blankets that don’t itch. He bought all that he could carry. That night he makes another Swedish flame, uses Wild’s new knife to cut up the meats, they pour out the excellent Scottish whisky and for five minutes sit by the fire on the empty Central Line platform, drinking and smoking and joking around like they’re nothing but young.

Then the warden walks up to Julian with a police officer by his side. Julian looks up at the two men hovering over him. He debates whether or not to stand up. He really doesn’t want to. All he wants is what they’ve just been having.

“You got your ID on ya?” the warden asks Julian.

With a shake of his head at Finch, Julian reluctantly rises to his feet.

“You heard the guard,” the officer says. “You’re not allowed to be down here without your ID and your ration card.”

“I need a ration card to be in the Underground?”

“Stop mouthing off. You have it or don’t ya? Because I’ll have to take you in if you don’t have it.”

Mia and Wild are by Julian’s side. “He’s with us,” Wild says. “He’s with the Rescue Squad.”

“Yes,” Mia says. “He’s with the Home Guard. His house got bombed. He lost everything.”

“What are you two, his solicitors? Sit down. Mind your own business.”

They don’t move. Julian is grateful, but he steps forward, away from them. He doesn’t like to be flanked by friends when he’s being confronted by enemy combatants.

The rest of the squad jumps to their feet and comes to his rescue, too. Slowly, Finch rises so he’s not the only one sitting.

“He helped us out, leave him alone, Javert.”

“Don’t call me Javert.”

“He’ll show you his friggin’ ID card tomorrow.”

“He’s helping in the war effort, what do you think he is, a spy on the inside?”

“Jules, offer Javert some whisky, he’s ornery because he hasn’t had any.”

“Enough out of all of ya!” the policeman bellows.

The only one saying nothing is Finch.

“You want to see my ID card, officer?” Julian says. “Why, of course. That’s not a problem.” Reaching into his pocket, Julian produces the card, the best National ID card money can buy off the back of a truck. “There you go.” Julian Cruz, it reads. Address: 153 Great Eastern Road. Occupation: journalist. “I work at a small financial publication near Austin Friars,” Julian says. “Well, worked. A parachute mine fell on Throgmorton Avenue.”

Mia listens to him in impressed puzzlement. “I thought you told me you ran a restaurant?” she whispers.

“Like you, I wear many hats.” Julian found out that not only is 153 Great Eastern Road still standing, but there is no restaurant there. And he prefers to make his white fibs as truthful as possible. To mollify the public officials further, Julian even produces a ration card, with someone else’s name etched out and his own stamped in. The cop glares at the sheepish warden, who in turn glares at Finch.

“Thanks for wasting my time,” the officer says to Javert as they skulk away.

The squad descends on Finch.

“Was that your doing?”

“Finch, did you rat him out?”

“I didn’t!”

“Finch, you fink, did you tell Javert that Swedish had no ID?”

“I didn’t!”

“Finch, you’re such a Berkeley hunt,” Wild says. “We don’t do that to our own. Why would you do that?”

“He’s not my friend, he’s not my own, stop calling me names, and I didn’t.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Finch.” That’s Mia. “Apologize to Julian.”

“It’s fine, Mia, don’t worry,” Julian says. “Finch made a mistake. He misunderstood. I said I misplaced it, not lost it. Good thing I found it, though, right, Finch?”

“I’ll burn first before I apologize to that tosser,” Finch says, skulking away.

There is Coca Cola, and Bing Crosby, and jitterbugs and calm confidence and good humor.

Carry on.

Carry on.

Carry on.

The young keep life going. They help the city at night, they sleep, rush to work, paint fake buses, they unload freight ships and bandage wounds. And in the evenings, they stay young. They argue over petty slights, learn to fight and how to wield knives, they drink, sing, and entertain others trapped with them in the cave. They do dramatic readings from newspapers, from history books, from memory diluted with whisky, they butcher Shakespeare and Dickens. On Sundays they read Charles Spurgeon’s sermons. They have drunken discussions about the meaning of life and argue about where more bombs have fallen, Shadwell or Lambeth. Sometimes they dance. They’re close, yet afraid to get too close. They live like men in the trenches.